


Rose of Winter

by QueenCamellia



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: F/M, GreyLizzy, Hanahaki AU, Hanahaki Disease, He's so cute, I love her, Modern Era, One-Sided Attraction, Possibly Unrequited Love, Temporarily Unrequited Love, Unrequited Love, grey is such a sap honestly, grey you will be the death of me, hanahaki, i love ciel too dont get me wrong, lizzy's sweet and oblivious, the cielizzy hanahaki fic is in the works too
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-08 02:45:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14684805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenCamellia/pseuds/QueenCamellia
Summary: “I’ve always been your second option, haven’t I?”His words strike her like lightning, and she’s unable to respond. He takes less than three seconds to examine her expression: after all, Lizzy has always worn her heart on her sleeve.His lips curl upwards. “It’s okay,” he lies, “I understand.”(He doesn’t come back next week. Or the following week. Or the next.)(She never knew she’d miss him so much.)[Hanahaki Disease AU]





	Rose of Winter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pangeasexual](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pangeasexual/gifts), [pearypie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearypie/gifts).



> The Hanahaki Disease is a fictional illness born from one-sided love, where the patient throws up and coughs of flower petals when they suffer from one-sided love.  
> The infection can be removed through surgery, but the feelings disappear along with the petals.
> 
> Dedicated to the two amazing, darling mods of the @cielizzydefencesquad on tumblr, who introduced me to this ship which has taken over my life.

******_Camellia japonica_** _  
_

**_“Rose of Winter”_ **

 

_Perishing with grace_

 

* * *

 

  ** **The Budding.****

 

* * *

 

Elizabeth Midford storms into the dojo with an expression that screams murder. Tossing her bag to the side and whipping around to face him, she demands, “Match. Now.” Her expression, wrought with tumultuous emotions of pain and _anger,_ makes several kendo practitioners give them a wide berth. A storm brews in her eyes.

Charles Grey, resident kendo prodigy, blinks in surprise before studying his fellow kendo genius. There’s a beat of silence, then he shrugs and tosses her a _shinai._ “Wanna put on our _bougu_ first?”

She scowls, fierce and strong and utterly _beautiful._ If Midford’s smiles are the gentle rays of the Sun, then her scowls are from the fiery pits of hell. She’s _fire,_ her every action and expression unexpected, quick, and _exhilarating._ She’s fire, beautiful from afar and alluringly dangerous when close. She’s _fire,_ passionate and brilliant.

Well...if Elizabeth “Lizzy” Midford is fire, then Charles Grey is ice. He lunges forward and brandishes his sword with cool, slick elegance only attained with years of hard work. His silver eyes are cutting, perceptive, _knowing_ as they begin to duel. Midford can be beautifully deadly at times, but it takes lots to work up her to this extent.

Undoubtedly, Phantomhive’s done something again.

 _It’s always Phantomhive,_ Grey muses bitterly, blocking her blow before pirouetting around. It takes Grey loads of jibes and insults to rile Midford this much, and the blue-haired brat probably didn’t have to work for it at _all._ Grey can make the golden-haired girl fight out of _annoyance_ or competitiveness. He can’t make her fight out of anger and _passion._ He's just Grey, Midford's sparring partner and friend; although he already knows that Midford values Phantomhive more than him, the reminder stings.

Grey notices that her eyes are red and he scowls, doubling his efforts to gain a point. His movements are agile, his sword slicing through the air adeptly. Each blow is strategic: for all of his blustering and arrogance, Charles Grey is _smart._ More than that — he is _perceptive,_ calculative, and ready to strike at any given moment. The tears glinting in her eyes spur him on.

It’s _irritating,_ knowing that Phantomhive has enough influence over her to anger her to the point of tears.

They stop after thirty minutes of an intense back-and-forth battle, their foreheads glistening with sweat as they remove their stifling headgear. The other kendo practitioners swarm them, congratulating and praising them for their awe-inspiring duel; several girls attempt to talk to him, but Grey settles for a scowl that shuts them up. The majority of the girls attending the dojo came for whimsical, silly reasons like seeking love, and after his long string of victories in the previous kendo tournaments, he had become one of their prime targets. He  _does_ accept a proffered towel from one of the more tolerable girls, though, throwing it around his neck nonchalantly as his eyes sweep the area before landing on Midford.

She’s breathing heavily — they both are — and chatting happily with one of the girls in the dojo. Grey’s eyes narrow and he abruptly stands up straighter, pushing through the crowd and making his way to her. “Midford, you’re coming with me,” he commands bluntly, ignoring the numerous eyes on them. “You can talk with four-eyes some other time.”

“Her name’s Mey-Rin, Grey, and she’s been attending the dojo with us for the past four years,” Midford protests, but she allows herself to be tugged away by the irate kendo genius. They grab their bags and exit the dojo, heedless of the whispers left in their wake.

The dying rays of sunlight, shining softly past the canopy of cherry blossoms, illuminate their path. The air is cool, but not necessarily chilly; in fact, the breeze is refreshing after two hours of kendo practice. A boy on a bicycle zooms past them, but Grey isn’t inclined to speed up. It’s _nice_ to bask in leisure silence. Each step he takes is languid, but controlled: he matches Midford’s footsteps one by one.

Grey sighs, holding his bag over his shoulder lazily and shoving his other hand in his pocket. He doesn’t speak, but meets her eyes as they wait for the stoplight to change colors so they can cross the intersection.

He’s waiting for her to spill.

Sure enough, after a few more minutes of silence, Midford breaks and asks ever so casually, “Grey...am I annoying?”

Grey halts in his tracks, pivots on his heel, and gives Midford a blatant stare of disbelief. At first, he thinks that she’s kidding. “Midford,” he says, about to joke and answer in affirmation before noticing her trembling hands and downtrodden expression.

Unlike her usually fiery, straightforward gaze, Midford’s eyes are firmly pinned on the ground. The look doesn’t suit her at all.

Instead of saying something remarkably untactful, Grey shifts his weight to his other foot to face her and demands, “Do you think I’d waste my time around people I find annoying? I have standards, you know.”

Something about his indirect answer alleviates the burden weighing on her chest: Midford stands taller, the spark she had been missing _finally_ igniting in her eyes again. “O _-hoh,_ standards, you say?” she parrots, nudging him in the shoulder. It only partially works: Grey hit his growth spurt about two years ago, and Midford barely makes it to his chin. He indulges her, though, stumbling and sending her a look of mock pain. She snorts, amusement lining her smile. “Careful, Grey. It almost sounded like you cared.”

“We can’t have _that,_ now can we?” Grey agrees amiably. He pokes her forehead and says quite clearly, “You’re hideous.”

Midford beams, swatting away his hand. “So are you,” she returns sweetly. If she notices how he leans a little closer into her as they walk side-by-side, she doesn't point it out. They continue along their well-travelled path in comfortable silence; after all, this is their weekly routine.

They round the corner and enter the convenience store. Grey straightens, his lackadaisical attitude immediately disappearing as he exudes determination and domineering confidence in _waves._ Immediately, he makes a beeline for the snack section, passing by racks of magazines and alcohol without a second glance. “Midford, the basket!” he orders, pointing at the general direction of the grocery baskets dramatically before grabbing two boxes of Pocky and examining them critically.

This is, after all, serious business.

She rolls her eyes, but nonetheless holds out the green shopping basket obligingly. “You’re going to get fat someday, you know,” Midford chides. Despite her admonishment, she grabs a strawberry Ramune for herself and places it in the basket. When she looks up, Grey’s smirking at her smugly, his face obviously spelling _hypocrite._

Ever the mature one, Midford sticks her tongue out at him.

“I work out: I'll never get fat,” Grey dismisses, eyeing the large selection of instant noodles with interest. Midford glowers, grabbing Grey’s sleeve and tugging him to the counter before he can grab any of the large packs of ramen.

“Don’t you _dare,”_ she says, giving him a dirty look. Her stern expression is reminiscent of Francis Midford’s classic knee-shaking glare. Grey tries to look chastised and utterly fails. It’s _unfair:_ she’s even _prettier_ when she’s angry. With narrowed eyes, Midford continues, “I still have an entire stash of cup noodles because of your last instant noodle escapade.”

“How would you know which brand is the best if you don’t try them all?” Grey protests, grabbing his wallet and handing the cashier the amount necessary. Midford frowns when he pays for her items, but doesn’t protest: they’ve come to an agreement that Grey would fund their convenience store expenditures while Midford pays whenever they buy from food vendors. They nod their heads at the cashier in thanks, then hurry out of the store with their bounty.

“Pocky?” he offers, wagging the chocolate-covered snack in front of her face teasingly.

Midford blinks, then nods. “Sur—”

Grey laughs at her shell-shocked expression when he unceremoniously shoves the snack in her mouth, his silver eyes _daring_ her to eat more. She blushes a fierce red, swatting away his hand and shoving the rest of the stick in her mouth. “I _really_ hate it when you’re like this,” she mutters, snatching his box of Pocky out of his hand.

Grey laughs, pretending not to notice how _cute_ she is when she nibbles on another piece. “You’re so _sensitive,”_ he jibes.

The girl sputters, waving her hands in the air dramatically. Grey has no doubt that she would have done well in drama had she taken it. “You can’t just...just... _do_ that to people all the time, Grey!” she exclaims indignantly.

“Yeah, yeah,” he dismisses lazily. His flippant dismissal is met with a roll of the eyes, which Grey pretends not to notice. He sobers abruptly, raising an eyebrow at her. “So…” he drawls. “What did Phantomhive do?”

Grey curses himself when her face falls. Then, he mentally scolds himself: since when has he grown so _soft, dammit?_

Midford’s smile wavers until it’s strained at best. “It’s...nothing.”

He waits.

Sure enough, she recognizes that he’s not going to drop the subject matter. “It...wasn’t to _me_ personally,” Midford admits. She averts her gaze, emerald eyes focusing on anything but him as she bites her lip hesitantly. “He was just...complaining a little,” she explains.

“Kendo’s such a boorish sport, its practitioners are all stupid, and Charles Grey is an ass?” Grey surmises, his voice raising in pitch to imitate the azure-eyed boy.

“...essentially.”

Grey sniffs and stuffs another chocolate-covered stick in his mouth. “Why do you even _bother_ with him?”

Midford pauses, tilting her head and seriously considering his question. A battle wages within herself, conflicting emotions clearly flickering in her eyes. Then, she turns to stare at Grey, expression unusually bashful.  

“Well...because I...”

“...you?” Grey prompts, feeling a peculiar sense of dread well in his chest as she fiddles with the Ramune in her hands. Light, pastel pink dusts her cheeks and she shuffles her feet. Grey has never seen her look more alive, even their matches. She looks almost like those frail, lovesick girls with rounded doe eyes and pursed lips on the front of cheesy romance novels. It’s _wrong._

“...I like him,” she admits, her face flushed with _life_ as his heart thrums uselessly in his chest. Embarrassed, she averts her eyes. Her shy bashfulness, although cute, isn’t meant for him.

Roses wither away slowly, petal by petal. In contrast, camellias —the roses of winter— fall in one swoop.

Grey feels something plummet in his heart.

She’s still talking. “D-don’t go blabbing about that though, alright? I’m only saying this because I trust you!” Midford blabs, stammering and pushing back a stray strand of golden hair in an attempt to calm her nerves.

There’s this strange atmosphere of tension between them. Grey knows that he’s supposed to respond, now: he’s supposed to tease her, to parody her expression of love. He can’t, though: somehow, his bravado has all but abandoned him. If he says Phantomhive’s name, he thinks he might throw up.

His response is automatic, instinct taking over as his brain fails to understand the weight of her words. “Aw, you _trust_ me? I’m honored, Midford.” For particular dramatic emphasis, he places a hand to his heart and flutters his eyelashes coquettishly at her. Grey’s comment has an immediate effect: the atmosphere around them lightens, and they’re “just Midford and Grey” once more.

She giggles, punching his arm playfully. “You _should_ feel honored, peasant. I’m bestowing upon you my hard-earned trust,” she says, deigning him a particularly regal look.

Grey’s laugh is brittle _(fake)._ _“Your_ trust, hard earned? Hah! You’re much too soft, Midford. Any pickpocket could just _ask_ for your money and you’d happily give them your wallet after hearing whatever sob story they concocted.”

“It pays to be kind, Grey,” Midford admonishes him. She sounds exactly like her stick-in-the-mud brother who is all too much obsessed with chivalry and honor.

Grey pivots on his heel and begins walking backwards leisurely, hands placed lazily behind his neck. “Your kindness will be your downfall,” he predicts.

 _“'tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all,”_ Midford quotes. She really _should_ have tried for the drama club; instead, she dedicated her afternoons to dueling Grey in the dojo. “Besides, I could think of worse fatal flaws than kindness.” She pauses to raise an eyebrow at him. “Hubris, for example.”

He scowls, raising a finger in protest. “Say, what are you implying—”

She giggles, rushing ahead of him with laughter bubbling in her throat. “Nothing~” she calls teasingly.

Grey sighs, watching her retreating figure for a long moment. Even with her back facing him, he still finds her... _beautiful._ Not in the romantic sense (at least, he doesn’t _think_ so), but perhaps in a way that one views art: rapturing, vivacious, and captivating.

She’s _Midford,_ his friend for all of eight years. She’s _Midford,_ the girl who he had dueled practically everyday, exchanging jabs and bantering between sword thrusts and parries. She’s _Midford,_ the girl who he has comforted far too many times than he should. (She should always be smiling.)

She’s _Midford._

She’s _Lizzy._

Something heavy constricts in his chest.

Grey sighs again, his pace languid as he follows her.

* * *

“He’s coming to the tournament,” Midford frets, barely ducking his strike. Her voice is higher than usual, her anxiety obvious despite the helmet shielding her expression from view. She’s nervous, and it shows: thrice already, she had barely avoided his blows, moving around sloppily with the grace of an elephant. She had been too distracted by the fanciful scenarios her mind readily supplied. “Maybe I should just sit this one out?”

Grey is _sick_ of it. Dueling is supposed to be _their_ time _(his time),_ and hearing Midford put herself down because of fucking _Phantomhive_ puts him in the worst of moods.

“No, I can’t do that,” Midford agonizes. “What do I _do?_ If he sees me—”

“—then he’ll realize how skilled and _strong_ you are,” Grey cuts her off, rolling his eyes. Barely concealed contempt for the Phantomhive brat boils in his veins, threatening to seep into his movements, but Grey suppresses it. He is ice, not fire. Swiftly, he easily counters her next blow and twists around to meet another lightning-quick strike. “I don’t see why you’re worrying so much.”

“He _hates_ women like me!” she bursts out, half hysterical. Grey is _finished_ with this nonsense.

“Then he doesn’t _deserve_ you, goddammit!” Grey snaps, pulling off his helmet and allowing her to see his blazing silver eyes. The dojo suddenly grows very quiet as the other kendo practitioners avert their eyes uncomfortably. Despite the attention focused on them, Grey’s eyes are focused solely on Midford. “Try to value yourself more, Midford. If he doesn’t like you for who you are, then he’s not worth your affection.”

Midford shifts her weight from her right to left side, removing her helmet to stare at him. She looks as if she has been struck by lightning, her eyes round with wonder.

It’s in that very moment when Grey’s struck by a realization: the uncomfortable feeling in his chest isn’t _annoyance._ It’s jealousy.

He wants her to smile at _him_ like that. He wants her to care about _him_ to the point that she misses a crucial opportunity for a counterattack. He wants her to fuss over _him,_ not stupid Phantomhive who has made her cry more times than he knows.

Grey wants her to love _him._

He loves _her._

It’s as if the world has shifted on its axis; suddenly, he finds it harder to breathe, unable to tear his eyes away from _Midford, Elizabeth, Lizzy—_

“Grey?” she asks tentatively, her voice suddenly meek. She eyes him as though he were a wild animal; he realizes that his body is still tense. Grey forcibly calms himself, relaxing his taut shoulders and falling back into his usual slouched stance.

“Come on, Midford,” Grey chides. He adopts the same lackadaisical tone he always uses around her, but somehow it’s harder to force the words out. “Your backbone seems to disappear when you’re around him. If Phantomhive’s as wonderful as you claim, he shouldn’t care that you can beat older men without breaking a sweat.”

_(I care. I care for your strength; I love you for your strength.)_

“I just don’t want to make him _uncomfortable,”_ Midford emphasizes, eyes trained on the floor.

_(Do you ever consider accommodating me like that?)_

(Of course. She’s Midford, kind and much too caring for her own good: if there’s any way she can help others, she’ll do it with no consideration for herself.)

Grey scowls, then impulsively strides over to her and grabs her by the chin. Pushing her chin upwards so she’s looking him in the eyes, he says, “You’re always worrying about others’ happiness. Who’s going to worry about _you?”_

She stares at him unflinchingly. Then she tilts her head and smiles, sending butterflies fluttering in his stomach as if he’s a giggling _schoolgirl,_ for pity’s sake. “Well, you obviously,” Midford says.

Grey blinks in surprise, then releases her and takes a step back. “Me?”

“You know, despite what you say about yourself...you’re a good person, Grey,” Midford beams, charisma rolling off her in waves. Her eyes are sparkling in such a _vivacious_ way that he can’t look away. Her smile is like the sun: dangerous, but too captivating to look away. If Phantomhive is the Sun to Midford’s Earth, then Grey is the moon _(a shallow substitute for her sun, unable to escape her gravity)._ “And even more than that: you’re a good friend. Maybe even my _best_ friend.”

“I think that honor goes to Sullivan,” he deadpans.

“Sieglinde’s a sweetheart,” Midford acknowledges, “But she’s always busy with schoolwork to really _talk_ to me, you know? You...you’re different. You pretend to be coarse and ruthless, but underneath that facade is a heart of gold. Wouldn’t you say so?”

Grey scoffs. “Whatever helps you sleep at night,” he responds evasively.

She beams at him again, and suddenly Grey feels as if he’s choking. “And I’m here for y—”

“Shit, I have stuff to do,” he curses, interrupting her. His throat is painfully raw, but he forces himself to speak. “Catch you later, Midford.”

“You can’t escape the truth, you softie!” she calls, laughing as he quickly escapes to the changing room to change out of his equipment.

* * *

He manages to stumble into his house, coughing. It’s sheer luck that nobody else is inside: Phipps is probably at the Handiworks Club and Undertaker is away at work. Grey coughs again, nearly tripping over his feet as he manages to toss off his shoes and enter the foyer. His chest is constricting painfully, each step a monumental effort as Grey struggles to _breathe._

It's almost embarrassing how hard it is for him to do something that he always took for granted. If Grey lives through this, he swears that he’ll never taking breathing naturally for granted again.

Swaying precariously, he leans against the wall for support. His knees buckle, and he staggers forward, slowly sliding to the ground. It feels as if the world is tilting and _God damn it, he can’t breathe!_

 _“Fuck,”_ he breathes. That one word is enough to elicit another storm of coughs, even more tortuous than the previous ones. His lungs are on fire and are drowning all at once, and each breath saps more of Grey’s willpower.

_What’s wrong with me?_

Pulling his hand away from his mouth, he stares at the bloody flowers he undoubtedly coughed up with utter bewilderment. Because of the blood, they’re slippery, but he still manages to recognize the scarlet flower. His silver eyes flicker with thought.

_Camellias. What the hell?_

Grey coughs again, letting out an agonizing wheeze. Black spots dance before his eyes, but he pulls himself up to his feet and staggers to his computer.

.

.

.

He learns it's called Hanahaki Disease.

.

.

.

_Heh, although Midford always threatened to kill me...I never thought that it would actually come true._

**Author's Note:**

> Angst ahead, my friends!  
> Welcome to a tale of mostly unrequited love, sappy Grey, oblivious Lizzy, modern Japan, etc.  
> This is a Hanahaki Disease fic.  
> There are three chapters: the Budding, the Blooming, and the Fall.


End file.
